


There's No Place Like Home

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz and Simon are soft, Enemies to Lovers, Fiona is scary, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Sexual Tension, Smut, Summer Vacation, between 7th and 8th year, teleporting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: Simon got away from the Humdrum at the end of 7th year by teleporting back to Watford—which Simon thought was all well and good, until he started teleporting to Baz over the summer at the most awkward possible times.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 155
Kudos: 1431
Collections: Simon saves Baz





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was an absolute joy to write, and I got the prompt idea from @carryonprompts on tumblr! go check it out if you want to submit or fill a prompt, (and feel free to tag me in it if you'd like me to fill a prompt for you!) 
> 
> special thanks to [@thedaggerrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose) and [@PanicAtTheAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanicAtTheAlice/pseuds/PanicAtTheAlice) who gave me their thoughts/ encouraged me while I wrote this!

**Simon**

By now, I’m used to the mind-numbing dullness of my summers, but this year’s been a special kind of hell.

London's experiencing its deadliest heatwave in a decade. My body runs too hot even in the winter— making me kick off my bedsheets in the middle of January with the discomfort— but it's much worse in July in a care home that lacks air conditioning. No one will talk to me, because the rumor that I'm a juvenile delinquent spread around quicker than usual (probably because I showed up sporting bruises from my last encounter with the Humdrum, so I looked like even more of a chavvy thug than usual). All summer, my magic's been boiling in my blood, and it's freaking the Normals out; they can hardly stand being in the same room as me. 

I've been wandering London during the days, cooling off in cafes whose workers don't mind that I haven't got any money to spend. The Mage would usually discourage this kind of pointless risk-taking, saying that the Humdrum could snatch me up and everyone would be none the wiser. But now, the Humdrum can summon me at any time—literally grab me from thin air—whether I'm in a care home or Nando's or even Watford, so I don't see any reason to spend my days with nuns and children at the St. Mary's Home. The Mage knows that I'm in danger, and he's still stuck me in a home for the summer, so I don't really see the point of following his directions this year. 

Today I've been kicked out of Costa Coffee for overstaying my welcome; I'm taking a back alley shortcut to see if Persephone Books—this feminist bookshop I like to go to because it reminds me of Penny— will give me shelter for the rest of the evening. Maybe the shop girl will let me stay and look at the comics (Well, if they even have comics— I've never checked.)

I'm halfway through the alley when I feel a presence a few feet behind me; I turn my head so I can discreetly take a look at the bloke trailing me. 

He's got stained lips like he'd been drinking red wine and cheekbones so sharp they'd nearly put the Pitches to shame. 

A goblin.

I try to summon the Sword of Mages but the goblin's reflexes are quicker than mine. He's got me against the brick wall of the alley before I can say, "in justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good." (Though, to be fair, that incantation is a bloody mouthful.) 

"Mage's Heir," the goblin says, and flashes me his too white teeth. He may be Hollywood superhero actor fit, but the effect of his beauty is deadened by the fact that his breath reeks of raw meat. "What are you doing all alone in a city like this? Don't you know it's not safe for a Mage-ling like you." 

I try to raise my leg to knee him and break free, but his grip on me is too strong; I can feel his fingertips forming bruises on my wrist. I spit in his face in retaliation, hoping to shock him into letting me go. He just laughs.

"I'm gunna be king when I bring you in," he says in a thick Northern accent, and turns his head to scrutinize me. "Though, I suppose I don't _have_ to bring you in. The poster did say 'dead or alive.' And you do smell pretty good." 

His face breaks into a predatory grin and he puts his hand around my neck, squeezing the breath out of my throat. _Fuck_ , _this is an embarrassing way to die,_ I think, annoyance and panic growing in me, _I've slain a dragon, solved the mystery of the sixth hare, and survived sleeping next to my evil git of a roommate for seven years, and I'm going to get eaten to death in a London alleyway by a bloody goblin because I forgot there was a price on my head._

I smell my magic burning in the air and heat growing in the palm of my hands at the realization that this is how I'm going to die. Baz is going to have a real laugh at this one, alone in our suite at Watford, hogging the bathroom with his damned thirty minute skin routine and wasting all the hot water and—

And just like that, the world spins 'round on its axis. One moment I'm looking at the face of a handsome attempted murderer, and the next I'm looking at the face of— well, another handsome attempted murderer. 

" _Snow?"_ Baz demands as I hunch over and cough, still feeling the ghost of the goblin's fingertips at my neck. "What in the name of Merlin did you just do?"

I catch my breath and look up to glare at the face of my sworn enemy. I'm pleased to see how startled he looks— his face is flushed and his jaw is agape in an uncharacteristically stupid expression. He's laying in bed with his covers pulled up to his neck, like he's some Victorian era lady trying to protect his virtue. I almost want to laugh, but Baz Pitch's intensity tends to take the laughter out of any room, so I don't.

"What does it look like?" I say, going for sarcastic, but my voice comes out a bit breathless. 

"It looks like you've decided to launch an attack on the House of Pitch, and you've come woefully unprepared like the bird-brained numpty that you are," he growls.

"I didn't mean to, you wanker!" I defend, and he scoffs. 

"Of course you didn't, Snow. You are the worst chosen one that's ever been chosen. What did you do, trip over a wood nymph's branches and get cursed here?" 

"Fuck off, you fucking pr-" My insult is ripped from my throat when I finally stop to take a proper look at him. He's let the covers drop for this verbal assault, and I realize it's not just his face that's flushed; he's shirtless, and I can see that it's his neck and chest too. His nipples are hard and pink, eye-catching against his pale skin. I gape at him, my eyes searching downward and I see that the blanket over his crotch is raised unnaturally. He shoves the covers up with a huff just as I realize what he'd been doing before I popped in. 

"Baz, were you _wanking?_ " I blurt out before I can think better of it. 

_"No,"_ he insists, but he's lying. His voice is hard and sharp, but underneath that there's an undercurrent of embarrassment that gives him away. 

Plus, I’m just now noticing there’s a tube of lube on the bedside table. 

Crowley, I didn't even think he _could_ wank, being a vampire and all. I suppose that's ridiculous, though; vampires are not human, sure, but they've still got human-like anatomy. It's not like I've never seen the outline of Baz's dick in his football shorts before. Maybe he's just got to drain some poor local to get hard. I want to ask who he ate to get his erection, but he cuts me off from that train of thought.

"Crowley, Snow, get out!" he yells, and yeah, he's _definitely_ embarrassed. His expression is angry, but also vulnerable, like how he looked when I saw him and Agatha in the Wavering Woods a couple weeks back. 

"Were you thinking of Agatha?" I demand in an accusatory voice, thinking of how they were holding hands the last time I saw them. Against my will, I get an image of him touching her, of him _wanting_ her, and a rush of jealous anger burns through my veins. 

"GET OUT!" he roars, and his face is alight with indignant fury. I want to drag him up by his collar and spit in his face, but he hasn't _got_ a collar to grab, because he's naked under his bedsheets. Suddenly, I've caught his embarrassment like a viral infection, and I feel my own cheeks tinting red as I stumble to the nearest door. I slam it behind me, and turn to put my back against the door. 

I'm looking at an all white bathroom with a sink littered with hair and face products with labels in French. Baz's en suite, then. It's fancy, much nicer than ours at school, spacious and covered in marble. I'm reminded that Baz has a home, a real home, outside of Watford, and it makes my stomach flip uncomfortably. I haven't spent a proper amount of time thinking about Baz over the summer. I mean, I think about him plotting and all the ways he's going to ruin my life come August, but I've never thought about what his bedroom at his family's place would look like. (Straight out of a Dracula movie, apparently. I mean, honestly, why does he have gargoyles on his bed posts? He might as well have an "I'm a vampire" sign hanging over his bed.) And I've certainly never thought about him laying in his bed wanking. 

I wonder if he wanks at Watford. If that's why his time in our en suite always seems to take upwards of an hour. Is he just using the time to touch himself, and not to blow dry his hair like I'd always assumed? (Though, given that he always looks like he's walked straight off a Pantene hair commercial, the answer is probably that he does both.) The idea of Baz touching himself is so foreign that I can hardly imagine it (though, that doesn't stop my brain from trying). Would he do it fast and rough and hard, the way he fights? Would he do it slowly, taking his time with it, making it last? Does he stick his elegant fingers in his mouth to silence the noise? Or is he loud and talkative, eloquent the way he always is when he's flinging insults at me? Is he—

There's a loud pounding, breaking me out of my fantasy—no, no, not a fantasy, just a curious passing thought. "Snow, open up right fucking now!" Baz yells, punctuating each word with hard, noisy knocks. I throw open the door, and he's got his hand balled and raised in a fist. I step back involuntarily. 

"Anathema," I say, out of a force of habit. 

"We're not in _our_ bedroom, you bloody moron. This is _my_ bedroom." 

"Whatever. Still don't hit me," I say, pushing past him out of his bathroom and into his bedroom. 

"No promises," he mutters under his breath. I look down to his neck, and the skin on his cheeks and neck has seemed to calm down to its usual grey colour. He's got a light blue button up tightly buttoned all the way up to the dip in his neck, so I can't tell if his nipples are still pink. Not that I'd want to know. "Care to tell me why you've decided to drop by? I don't recall inviting you for dinner." 

"Fuck off, I didn't mean to. It's not like I'd _want_ to see you anymore than I already have to." 

Baz clenches his jaw in a way that makes him look even sharper than usual; more like a vampire. It sends a barely repressed shudder through me. "Likewise," he snaps. "So are you going to explain yourself, or continue to prattle on like a numpty?" 

"I was getting to it, fucking Chompsky," I swear, and run a hand through my messy curls. "So, I was walking through an alley in London."

"Your first mistake," Baz interrupts. 

"Baz," I growl. "Didn't you want to hear this story?"

Baz raises his arms in mock surrender with an excessively sarcastic expression. 

" _Anyways,"_ I say meaningfully. "I was walking when I realized someone was following me. A goblin. He had me against the wall and was about to kill me and I didn't have time to summon the sword of mages—"

"—because that incantation is a paragraph long?"

"—and I was just thinking about how I was about to die and then I felt my magic rise inside of me and all of a sudden, I was standing over your ridiculous bed," I finish my explanation without acknowledging Baz's dig at my sword. (Not because he's right. But because if I had to defend myself against every one of Baz's insults, I'd never get anything else done.)

Baz is looking at me thoughtfully for a moment, like I’m a particularly difficult maths problem. "Did it feel like last time? Like it did at the end of term?" 

I didn't think of that. (Though, of course Baz has.) It was a little like how I escaped the Humdrum last time. After Penny threw the red ball, throwing him ( _is_ he a him? He's got the face of one. At least when he's wearing mine, anyways) off our scent, and she was saying _'what are we going to do, what are we going to do, what are we going to do'_ under her breath _,_ sounding more freaked out than I'd ever heard her sound. Penny didn't even sound that bad when we fought that basilisk back in second year. I grabbed her hand, hard, trying to calm her down, but not knowing how, my hand resting awkwardly on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. _'I don't know, I—_ ' I said, wishing we were back in the Wavering Woods, back with Agatha and Baz, where it was safe. ' ** _I wish I was home.'_ **

Without warning, we suddenly _were_ home— back in my bedroom at Watford. Penny and I just plopped straight onto Baz's bed, startling him into grabbing his chest in alarm and yelling, ' _Crowley, Snow!'_ so loudly I heard it ringing in my ears. He was asking me over so many questions— ' _Where did you go?'_ and _'What did you do?'_ — that I just told him the truth, with a sobbing Penny under my arm: ' _The Humdrum took us,_ ' and _'I just wished it.'_

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have told Baz, my sworn enemy and the heir of the Old Families, about my ungodly display of magic. Penny was taken aback by it, telling me that mages shouldn't be able to do anything like that. The Mage was shocked too, swearing me to secrecy on the matter, and I didn't tell him I had already accidentally told the worst possible person. 

"Kind of," I say with a shrug. "I don't know. I wasn't paying attention to that, exactly."

Baz rolls his eyes and mocks, "Of course, you _weren't paying attention_ —"

"Sorry,” I say sarcastically. “I was a little distracted by the almost dying and the walking in on my sworn enemy wanking bits.”

Baz ignores that comment, and says, "Okay, well, let's get you back to the Mage before he tears our house apart looking for you. The last thing we need is him and his merry band of idiots mussing up the library; I just reorganized it last week, and I don’t fancy doing it again."

"I wasn't with the Mage," I grumble. 

"The Wellbeloves, then," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

"I wasn't with them, either," I complain. _And not just because Aggie broke up with me for you at the end of last term,_ I think, but I don't say it out loud. I don't want him to know he's got an open shot at her now that she's single. 

"Where were you then?" he asks impatiently, his thick eyebrows furrowed in curious confusion. 

"I already told you, in London," I say, reluctant to tell him where for some reason, and not just because I shouldn't be disclosing my secret location to the enemy. 

"I believe we've established you were wandering around London like a lost stray, Snow. I'm asking with whom? I need an address to mail your body if you don't just give me a straight answer—" 

"I was in a care home, okay!?" I explode, so agitated that my words pour out of me unbidden. "I was walking around the streets, trying to find somewhere warm to hang out. Are you _happy_ now?" 

For once, the annoyingly eloquent Baz Pitch looks at a loss for words. He opens his mouth stupidly and closes it again. "Why would the Mage put you there?" he finally says, in an indecipherable tone. 

"You know. To stay closer to the language," I say, giving him the excuse the Mage always gives me. I wish I had said it more convincingly, because Baz is looking at me with a mixture of skepticism and—something else. I don't know. Though I do know he doesn't think that explanation adds up. (Neither do I, anymore.) 

"Can you just, like, point me in the direction of the nearest train station or something?" I ask, silently hoping he's not going to make me say _please._ I don't think I could live it down if I were to have to beg Baz Pitch for anything. 

"Do you have any money?" he asks me suspiciously.

"Yes," I say, but I don't. I was planning to either hop it or rely on the generosity of a kind stranger. 

"Let me see, then."

"I don't want you to steal it," I snap. He raises a single eyebrow at me, and then opens his hands as to say, ' _look around you right now. I'm richer than Merlin.'_ I growl at him.

"Fine, I don't have any quid. But I'll figure it out." 

"I can drive you," he offers. 

I look at him like he's grown a second head. "Why would you do that?" 

"I don't want you to get arrested _sneaking_ onto a _railway_ ,” he says, like the very thought is beneath him. It probably is.“If you die in prison, who am I going to fight at the final battle? The older Bunce? It would be too easy." 

I narrow my eyes at him, but his blank expression doesn't waver. I suppose I don't really fancy getting arrested tonight; I'd be stuck in a cell for Merlin knows how long. I don't even know the Mage's phone number, and it's not like St. Mary's would bail me out. 

"Fine," I concede, "but I get to pick the radio station." 

* * *

The second time it happens, I've got a much shittier excuse than a goblin attack. 

I was really hoping there just wouldn't _be_ a second time. The car ride back to London with Baz was unbearably awful. He insisted on playing classical music the entire hour and a half, and I'm still not convinced it wasn't just so he could break the silence every twenty minutes with his condescending commentary: _'Really, Snow, you don't know who Mozart is? You don't know who Debussy is? You don't know who Chopin is?'_

I tried not to rise to the bait, but by the end I was ready to tear his head off. Especially when we finally got to the dingy care home I’m staying in this summer, and Baz looked borderline appalled at where I was living. I jumped out of his Jaguar—which looked utterly _ridiculous_ in such a poor neighborhood—and raced into the home without a glance back or a goodbye. (Definitely not with a 'thank you'. Thanking Baz would sound way too foreign out of my mouth.)

It’s been a week since then, and I think I’ve finally nearly got the memory of his post-wank blush off my mind. Though, I haven't been able to get the melody of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 out of my head (it is ridiculous that I know what that song is called). 

I’m tossing and turning in bed right now, frustrated with how the day’s gone. I’ve spent a lot of time in the care home this week, nervous that more goblins are going to find me. I’ve gone out a few times, not wanting the goblins’ grudge to ruin my already abysmal summer, but I’ve been so jumpy and paranoid that I make cafe workers and shopkeepers nervous. I was kicked out of a corner shop by an employee that was convinced I’d been shoplifting, and the shame of everyone’s eyes on me as I turned out my pockets is replaying in my head like a bad movie. To top it off, I was late to dinner, since that employee interrogated me, and they stopped serving food just as I walked into the house.

Today of all days, too.

The Mage's forgotten that it’s my birthday. He always picks me up for some adventure today: sitting in on a Coven meeting, collecting dust from the pixies, slaying some wayward werewolves. Just something to break the monotony of the summer holidays and—well, not _celebrate_ exactly. The Mage hasn't the foggiest idea how to relax; he thinks a good time is writing up tax reform legislation. But something's better than nothing. Something's better than being ignored. 

I know I told Penny not to, but I wish she’d reached out. Even if she possessed one of the nuns; it would be better than spending the day utterly alone.

It’s half past nine; it’s earlier than I usually get into bed, but I don’t want to play another game of Connect Four with Sister Judith, who only plays with me because she feels bad none of the other kids will. I hear some older boys noisily make their way into the shared bedroom. I’m in the bunk furthest from the door, hidden by the darkness of the corner. They must not realize I’m here, I suppose, because they’re talking about me. I close my eyes and turn my back to them, but it doesn’t block out the sound of their voices. 

“I hear Snow’s dealing drugs for a gang up south.”

“Sounds right. He always smells like cheap smokes and comes back in the nick of time for curfew.”

“No, mate. They say that they won’t even let him into a gang; he’s too antisocial. He’s _dangerous.”_

“Get this: I overheard Sister Elizabeth say he’s usually at some school for the criminally insane during the school year.” The boy sounds genuinely terrified.

“ _Jesus_ ,” another boy chimes in, “and they let him in here? He’s a safety hazard.”

Usually, I can let these kinds of comments roll right off me. I get it; my magic acts as a repellent to Normals and makes it uncomfortable to be around me. But tonight, with my anger at the Mage for forgetting me and with how fiercely I miss Penny, the boys’ gossip stings more deeply. I feel my skin get hot and I’m struggling to fight it off; I haven’t gone off in a care home since I was eleven, and I’m certainly not in the mood to do it today. 

I think the worst part is that they may be factually wrong, but they’re not totally off base. I _am_ dangerous. I can’t control my magic and I can’t stop the Humdrum from snatching me and anyone that happens to be touching me. He sends creatures to me every year and I just kill and kill and kill; what else am I good for?

What did Baz say that time I accidentally blew up the theatre building in sixth year? ‘ _Crowley, Snow. Everything’s just collateral damage in your inferno.’_

Shame coils in my gut at the memory, at Baz’s expression when he said it. The way his top lip curled and his expression darkened and I overheard him say to Dev and Niall what he always says: _‘What do you expect? He’s the worst chosen one ever chosen.’_

I hate when he says that, with the dismissive tone of his voice and disdain clear on his face, but I especially hate that it’s true. That I’m supposed to be able to save the world, but I can hardly save myself.

I feel my skin getting hot, but I barely pay it any mind, caught up in memories of Baz’s insults and Baz’s sneer and the way his face looked uncharacteristically pitying when he dropped me off—

I feel weightless for a moment, before the sound of care boys talking about me fades and is replaced by the sound of running water and… singing?

_“Mama, just killed a man,”_ a sweet, melodious voice sings from behind a shower curtain, “ _Put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger, now he’s dead_.”

I’m standing in an all-white bathroom I recognize. “So you _do_ know some normal music, then,” I say, and Baz Pitch screams a high, un-Baz-like scream. I’m laughing as I hear a crash from inside the shower. 

“Uh, Baz, you good?” I ask, but I think my sincerity is undermined by my uncontrollable giggles. 

Baz pops his head out to give me what’s surely meant to be a withering glare. It’s undercut by the fact that his hair’s wild and unstyled, with white bits of shampoo in it. “Snow, are you doing this on purpose?” He snarls.

“Already told you I wasn’t,” I say. The hardness of his voice isn’t much of a concern right now; I’m not very afraid of him when I know he’s vulnerable and naked in front of me. I keep smiling, unaffected by the dark look on his face, so I keep going. “You’ve got a nice singing voice, Baz,” I tease. 

“And you’ve got nice pajamas, Snow,” he says sarcastically. I look down at myself, and remember I’m still wearing ratty hand-me-downs from the home. There are rips at the collar of my T-shirt, and my shorts are much too short. I walk out of the bathroom before Baz can follow up with another dig at how poor I am. 

I wait on his blood-red plush bench at the end of his bed. After about fifteen minutes, Baz comes back into his bedroom, and his hair is shampoo-free and spelled dry. He's got his wand in his hand, so he's properly intimidating again, and I stand when he enters the room. 

"Seriously, Snow. I thought you'd have better things to do than invade my house on your birthday," he snarls. 

"I have plenty of better things to—" I start to lie, and then realize what he's just said. "Wait, how'd you know it was my birthday?"

I think his face gets uncomfortable for just a moment, but I'm sure I've just imagined it, because he sarcastically snaps, "It's a national mage holiday. My family’s gotten birthday cake to commemorate the eighteenth anniversary of Britain's strongest nuclear bomb. Want some?"

I roll my eyes, but my stomach growls, giving away my hunger. Baz sighs, and walks over to his dresser. 

"Here," he says, throwing me a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, "put on some real clothes."

I look at the casual clothing in my hand with my mouth agape. "You-you own jeans?"

"What?" he snaps, looking annoyed at my confusion. "Yes, you numpty. Now put them on." 

I start pulling over his Watford football hoodie and dark blue denim jeans, trying not to think of the ridiculous mental image that is Baz Pitch in casual clothing. I open his bedroom door to find him leaning cooly against the wall opposite me. 

"Are you going to—" I start, but he angrily shushes me. 

"Quiet!" he whisper-yells. "I don't want to wake up my parents. Merlin knows how I'd explain _this,_ " He waves generally to all of me. 

"Don't they know I can teleport now?" I ask, puzzled by his panic. Baz has known since the Humdrum, why wouldn't he have told his Father yet? 

"No, so you better not alert them to it. C'mon," he says, and starts leading me down a dark corridor. His house continues to be the evil villain lair I'd anticipated, and I want to tell him what a bad cliche he is. But he'll just get angry at me for speaking again, so I keep my mouth shut.

"Basilton?" a sweet voice calls out from down a corridor, and Baz and I both jump in shock. A little girl with braided pigtails and a Victorian nightdress comes out of a room I hadn't noticed, and walks up to Baz. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Mordelia," Baz says in a soft voice I've never heard him use, "go back to bed."

The girl—Mordelia—looks over to me. It takes her a moment, but then she recognizes me, and her little eyes widen in shock. 

"Why is the _Chosen One_ here?" Mordelia asks in an excited voice that's too loud for the quiet hallway. Baz shushes her, but she keeps talking at her heightened volume, "Does Father know? Is he your boyfriend?" 

I let out a bark of laughter, shocked by her question (that is, until Baz sends me a sharp glare in return.) He turns the dark look from me onto little Mordelia, but she just smirks. (She _must_ be Baz's sister. That smug facial expression is all too familiar.) "What do you want?" he asks, and her wide smile gets even more mischievous. 

"I want you to take me to the rest of my football practices this summer."

"Vera is already taking you," Baz says, exasperated. 

"I want _you_ to take me," she insists, a bit petulantly, crossing her arms stubbornly. 

"Fine," Baz concedes, "but not a word from you to anyone, you hear me?"

Mordelia nods enthusiastically and grins. "Bye, Chosen One!" she says, before skipping off to her bedroom. 

Baz shakes his head, but I'm surprised to see past his frustration with her is an obvious fondness.

"I didn't know you had a sister," I whisper.

"You don't know anything about me," he says, difficult as always. Then, after a pause, he adds, "I have three, and a brother." 

I'm rearranging my mental image of Baz to imagine him as the eldest of five kids. It's hard to imagine him as a big brother; I assumed he was the sort of spoiled only child that got whatever he liked and his parents doted on. But watching him with his little sister, he was almost sweet. Even if she is a mischievous mini-Baz. (Maybe _especially_ because she is.) 

A question comes to me as we're driving the Jaguar down the one lane highway out of Hampshire. "Hey," I say, breaking the silence, "why did your sister think I was your boyfriend?" 

Baz fiddles with the gear lever and avoids eye contact with me. "Maybe because you were sneaking out of my bedroom late at night in my clothing…?"

"Yeah, but like. I'm me." 

"I'm well aware that you're a bloke, Snow."

There's an awkward silence in the car. I had meant that I'm, well, _me._ The Mage's Heir. Chavvy, and a screw-up, and not at all Baz's type (I’m sure whoever he was into would be posh and pretty and, well, more like Baz himself).

"So… that thing with Agatha wasn’t...?" I say with a bit of apology in my voice. I’m struggling to find my words. 

Baz lets out a long-suffering sigh, and says angrily, "How do you manage to make _everything_ about Wellbelove? Honestly?" He runs a hand through his hair agitatedly and it messes up his hair. It looks nice like that, loosely falling in locks framing his cheekbones. "No, I am not after your precious girlfriend, Snow. I'm _gay._ Which you would have noticed if you really knew me at all," Baz snaps bitterly. 

I want to argue with him—tell him that I _do_ really know him. I know that his favourite crisps are salt and vinegar, and that he eats them in our bedroom when he thinks I’m asleep. I know that he’s wicked with a violin, and that he likes sad, dramatic melodies. I know what his face looks like when he’s having a nightmare and what it looks like when he’s having a pleasant dream (furrowed eyebrows and whispered ‘no’s for bad ones, little smiles and soft sighs for good ones). I know that his worst subject is astrology, so he goes to our professor’s office hours every week to keep up his grades in the class. I know that he’s a vampire, even if he’ll never admit it.

Now I know that he’s a good big brother, and that he likes to sing Queen in the shower, and that when he touches himself it brings colour to his pale skin.

I know Baz, even if there are some things I’ve gotten wrong.

I see him.

But I suppose none of that is the right thing to say. Neither is "She's not my girlfriend anymore," but I can't find any better words, so that's what I go with. 

Baz doesn't say anything. Just takes a turn off the highway far too early. 

"What are you doing?" I ask, panic rising in me. Maybe he's going to murder me; maybe _that's_ why he didn't want anyone to know I was with him: plausible deniability. 

But he just turns the car into a McDonald’s drive through. "You're hungry, aren't you?" he says. 

I'm so grateful I could kiss him. (I don't, obviously. I just nod in agreement.) I order two burgers, a large fries, chicken nuggets, and a large soda, but he just orders a mocha frappuccino.

"I didn't peg you as someone who'd have a sweet tooth," I say. 

"I'd say I didn't know that you're a gluttonous pig," he says as he hands his MasterCard over to the McDonald’s employee, "but I've seen you far too many times with your scones in the dining hall."

I'd usually take this as an insult, but it sounds much more like banter after everything—after he's gotten me food and offered to take me home for the second time. I laugh loudly, and I swear I catch the corner of his mouth turn up in amusement.

“So," Baz asks as I take the first bite of my Big Mac, "what made you teleport this time?"

I debate whether or not to tell him. He could make fun of me, or use it against me. But he told me that he’s gay, so I suppose we're sharing today, right?

"Some boys at the home," I say, closing my eyes and leaning back on the car seat, "they were talking about me. Everyone thinks I'm some kind of freak."

"What do you care what a couple of random Normals say about you?" 

"It's just… they said I'm... well, that I'm dangerous. And they're right, Baz," I admit. I think I can feel Baz's eyes on me, but I don't open mine to check. "The Humdrum can summon me now, and anyone I touch can be taken with me."

"Yeah," he says, "but you can teleport."

"I'm not _trying_ to," I insist. “I don’t know how I’m doing it. I can’t just make it happen on command. I don't know whether it'll work next time. What if it doesn't?”

“So, we’ll figure it out.”

“We?” I ask, the concept of the two of us working together foreign to me. 

“Just you then,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice, “good luck figuring out a magic problem on your own.”

“You don’t have to be such a tosser,” I huff, “I was just surprised you’d ever offer to help me.”

“I’d like to be able to shower without fear that I’ll be interrupted by your graceless intrusions.”

"Okay, so figuring out why this is happening is a win-win. I can learn how I'm teleporting so I can choose where I end up, and in return… you know. We won't end up in a situation where I jump you when you're naked." I say with an awkward laugh. Baz doesn't answer, just purses his lips, so I press on. "Truce?"

Baz lets out a long, loud sigh, but he agrees, "Truce."

* * *

The next month continues on like this: There's a handful of hot and miserable, but admittedly boring, days in a row where I'm stuck alone in the London care system. I wander the streets, don't eat enough, and avoid skin-to-skin contact with anyone for fear that the Humdum will grab me and I'll be stuck with an unlucky Normal in tow.

But then, I'll have a particularly rough day, and suddenly I find myself at Baz Pitch’s side. 

"What's the link?" he pondered, not for the first time, during our last car ride back to London. (I was dodging some Normal bloke with a pocketknife.) I shrugged, but he pressed on. "Do you say anything right before it happens?"

"Well, that time with Pen, I just said that I wished I was home, and I ended up back in our bedroom," I replied, popping McDonald’s french fries in my mouth. (He always gets me food when I teleport to him. Makes me wish I could do it on purpose, just to get a decent meal out of it.) "I haven't said anything the other times."

"Well, were you thinking about something?" he asked.

I just shrugged at him, and he called me a lazy bastard, and I stole a sip of his milkshake in retaliation. He growled at me, but it just made me laugh. 

All my unplanned trips to Hampshire have made me realize Baz really isn't so bad. He lets me pick the music on our drives, now. (Though, he wasn't just playing classical music that first time to take the piss; he really does enjoy it. But he is willing to put on some 80s and 90s rock as well.) He's sort of funny, in his way. All his dry sarcasm and dark humour isn't so bad, when he's not being malicious about it. It's sort of nice spending time with him, and I'm grateful to have something to break up the monotony, even if it is largely just car rides with my nemesis. 

Though, remembering the snorty way he laughed when I made that tasteless joke about the Minotaur's horny-ness (‘ _Get it, Baz? ‘Cause he’s got horns!’)_ makes me think that maybe he’s not _really_ my nemesis. 

Maybe that's why I haven't been trying very hard to learn how to teleport on command. If his parents aren't home, he'll try to make me stay for a while in his family library and practice with him, but it hasn't worked yet. No matter how many times he tells me to _'light a match inside my heart and blow on the tinders'_ , my magic won't cooperate. (Not unless I'm in an uncomfortable or frightening situation, apparently.) 

But I suppose it doesn't really matter that I can't direct my teleporting, as long as I can get to safety, right? And Baz is safe. (As long as this truce lasts, anyways.) 

I drift off to sleep, and my dreams start as just that: dreams. A sunny day in the Wavering Woods with Ebb and the goats, feeding them grains and watching Ebb spell them different colours (which is a real indicator that it's just a dream; Ebb would surely think something like that's a waste of magic, but it makes for a pretty scene.) 

But eventually, the dream gets darker as it turns into a nightmare. The shift creeps up on me the way my night terrors always do: slowly, until I finally notice the warning signs (the loss of sunlight, the chill in the air, the queasy feeling in my gut). Then, once I'm aware of the off-ness, it crashes on me all at once in an ominous sudden nightfall. 

I'm in the shadows of the trees of the Wavering Woods, and Ebb and the goats are nowhere to be found. I hear a twig snap to my right and go to summon my sword, but it doesn't come to me; it's gone. I feel my chest constrict in terror as I hear someone approaching. 

As he walks closer, I see that he's a vampire, with his face dripping and shirt stained with dark red blood. It's…

"Baz?" I call out to him, and step closer to him. Usually, I'm afraid at this point in my dream. (Because, I've had it before. Nightmares about Baz biting me, snapping my neck, killing me.) But that was before. "Are you okay?" 

Dream Baz looks confused for a second. I don't think I've ever asked him that before, in my dreams or in real life. "Snow…." he says as a warning and looks at something over my left shoulder. 

I turn around and see me, age eleven, in ratty tennis shoes bouncing a bright red rubber ball. 

The Humdrum.

Again, I try to summon my sword, but it's still not there. I open my mouth to ask Baz to get out his wand, but he's dropped to his knees. I say his name and he groans in pain, raising his face to me, baring his teeth with tears streaming down his face.

  
"Make it stop," he pleads. 

"What?" I say, and drop to the ground beside him. "Make what stop?"

He opens his mouth in a silent scream just as the Humdrum laughs.

"Wicked," the Humdrum says, and my heart jumps in my chest. He sounds just like me at that age, with his thick Cockney accent. I want to ask him more questions, but Baz is screaming in earnest now, an awful sound, like an animal being slaughtered.

"Baz?" I yell and grab him by his forearms to try to calm him down. It doesn't work; he's thrashing and crying against me, his fangs like sharp knives in his mouth. I'm more afraid for him than me in this moment, though. 

He's begging me to _make it stop, make it stop_ but I can't. I'm filled with the overwhelming feeling that this is my fault. I've done this. The louder the Humdrum laughs, the more convinced I am that I've brought this misery onto him. 

_No,_ I think desperately, feeling the fire inside me rage with my panic. I close my eyes because I don't want to see Baz's face contorted in agony any longer. _I'm so sorry, Baz. I didn't mean to. Please stop crying, please stop. I don't want to be here, I can't do this, I want to be back where it's safe, I want to be back with the real you, I want_ —

My internal terror is cut off when I feel myself suddenly floating, flying, soaring out of my dream and into—

"Oomph!" Baz exclaims as I land right on top of him. _Have I learned to lucid dream?_ I wonder, though I'm too scared to open my eyes to check, in case I just find myself facing a worse terror. _Did I actually manage to wish myself into a pleasant dream?_

But then, a shove on my shoulder. "Snow!" Baz grunts. His voice is so real, so Baz, that it makes me brave enough to open my eyes.

I look down to find Baz Pitch under me, his eyes wide with shock and worry and his breath cool on my cheek. "Baz? Are you alright?" 

"You're the one who just assaulted me in the middle of the night and you're asking if I'm _alright?"_ Baz says in a snarky, exasperated tone. 

Out of pure relief, I hug him close to me. _You're okay._

"Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be?" Baz says, and I realized I must have said that out loud. "Just because the Pitch Manor is haunted doesn't mean it's _deadly,_ Snow. The ghosts are non-corporeal."

His tone is snide, but he's letting me latch myself to him, so he can't be terribly put out with me. Nonetheless, I say, "Sorry. Nightmare," by way of an apology and an explanation.

"You had a nightmare about me?"

  
  
"Yes," I reply in a low voice, and he tenses beneath me. The adrenaline coursing through my veins has got me a little high, which is why I keep talking, trying to explain myself. "Well, no. You were there, and the Humdrum did something, and you were screaming in pain, and I got scared because I couldn't fix it. And I was just thinking of getting out of there, and, well. You know the drill. I teleported."

After I say all this, I finally get a sense of how weird this is; I've quite literally jumped my (ex?) nemesis in his bed in the middle of the night, and have been clinging to him like some kind of overly needy child. I extract myself from him, heat coloring my cheeks, and roll over off him so that I'm laying beside him instead of on top of him. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"—mean to. I know," Baz says, his voice raspy and almost soft with sleep. 

"Uh, do you want me to—" and then I stop, because I don't know what to say. I've never arrived at his house so late; I glance at the clock to find it's 1:45 a.m. Far too late for Baz to drive me home. Even if he could manage to stay awake, I don't think I'd be able to sneak into the care home at 3 in the morning. 

"You can just… sleep here. If you want," Baz says, and I think his voice sounds unsure. (Which is ridiculous. Baz is never unsure of himself—he's all elegant poise and self-assured smirks.) 

"Thank you," I whisper to him in the darkness, grateful for his company. 

The silence is more reflective than awkward. This isn't the first time I've thought _maybe I've always been wrong about Baz,_ but it's the strongest. It's hard to reckon the Baz that punched me down the stairs with the one next to me, the one who’s given me a safe harbor all summer without putting up much of a fight. 

"Which is real?" I find myself asking him, with my eyes glued to the ceiling. Baz's room's got a stained glass mural up there, and I've got my eyes fixed on the red dragon in the top left corner as I await his answer.

"What do you mean?" he finally says, without looking at me either. (I know because my eyes keep darting to his face, but he's got his gaze upward too.) 

"Who's the real you? The one who tried to kill me with a chimaera or the one who knows my McDonald’s order by heart?" 

"I wasn't trying to _kill_ you. Only scare you."

"Come off it," I huff. 

"Seriously," he says earnestly. "You were being really annoying that year. I thought it'd make you keep your distance."

"Do you…” I trail off while I find my words. “Do you still want that? For me to leave you alone?"

"No," he says so quietly I'm not sure it's not just a product of my wishful thinking. 

"Because we're friends now?" I say, even though I'm not sure if _friends_ is the right word. I'm not sure if Baz likes that description of what we're doing either, because he doesn't respond for a few heavy seconds. 

Then, he says, "Yes, I suppose we are."

"Good, then you oughta share the blankets with me," I say with a tug at his comforter, and it exposes his ankles to the chilly bedroom. He hisses and tugs back at the covers reflexively. 

"You're a rude houseguest," he huffs, "haven't you got any manners?" 

"Nope," I say, popping the 'p' and smiling. I can tell he's not really mad, because he's doing that thing he does with his face when he’s trying hard not to smile. 

I don't want him to be cold though (he's already below normal temperatures, being a vampire and all) so I give back some of his blankets, but I also move closer to him. "We can share," I whisper, only inches from his face. I can see every one of his feathery eyelashes this close up; they're long and dark and pretty, especially as they flutter quickly as he blinks one, two, three times rapidly. I worry for a moment that he’s off-put by my proximity; he's still not looking at me. But then, I feel his body relax beside me as he sinks into the mattress with a soft sigh. 

"Goodnight, Baz," I say, and close my eyes. 

"Goodnight, Simon," I hear a soft voice say, mixed up in the beginnings of my dreams, and come morning, I'm not sure whether or not I've imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have chapter 2 up by the end of the week! til next time! & please leave kudos and comment what you thought, if you'd like. 
> 
> come find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com) where I post a ton about Carry On/ my WIPs/ queer lit in general :)


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon figures out why he's been teleporting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took longer than i promised, i think the solution is not to make promises ever again. or to learn how to write faster. one of those two things. thanks for coming back to read the conclusion to this story anyways!
> 
> special thanks to [@thedaggerrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose) and [@cynosure_phrases](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases) for beta editing this today when I finally finished it and was like I NEED TO POST IMMEDIATELY 
> 
> hope you all enjoy!
> 
> also, warning, this is NSFW

When Fiona comes to find me at the care home the first week of August, her relation to Baz is the most striking thing about her. Not just in her appearance—their shared physical traits of grey eyes, sharp cheekbones, and long, regal hands—but in the fact that the two of them are by far the biggest drama queens I have ever had the (dis)pleasure of knowing. 

"Where is the Chosen One?" I hear her snarl as I'm walking down the stairs of St. Mary's. 

"I'm sorry, miss. Who are you looking for?" the bewildered college girl manning the front desk asks Fiona. 

"The Mage's Heir," she snaps impatiently, and pulls a cigarette out of her coat pocket. 

"I'm—you— _ma'am,_ you cannot smoke in here!" 

"Like hell I—"

"Fiona Pitch," I greet as I make my way over to her. I recognize her from the times she's come to pick up Baz for holidays and weekends. And from all the times I've caught her trying to sneak into the Mage's office. And from the time she spelled my feet to the ground with a particularly strong **Stand Your Ground** that I couldn't spell myself out of for two hours. "What are you doing here?" 

"Simon Snow," she snarls, and it sounds like a threat. I'm tempted to take a step back in alarm, but I know showing weakness in front of a Pitch is sure to result in your own destruction, so I stand my ground ( _without_ magic). The front desk volunteer is giving me a look that says clear as day ' _of course this has to do with you,'_ so I say to Fiona, "Let's take this outside."

" _Let's_ ," she says with one last dirty look over her shoulder to the poor girl she'd been harassing.

I walk out to see Baz's red Jaguar parked in front of St. Mary's in a towing zone. "Where's Baz?" I ask, my heart racing a bit. I haven't seen him since last week, when he let me sleep in his bed after my nightmare. I woke up tangled around him; I wasn't sure what to do about it, so I pretended to be asleep until he woke too and gently extracted himself from me to use the restroom. I can already tell thoughts of his fingers at my waist are stuck in my long-term memory; I don't think I'll soon forget the coolness of his skin, or the peaceful way he looked in the morning before he woke. I'm almost disappointed a goblin hasn't tried to kill me this week; I'm anxious to get back to him.

"Don't give me that bollocks," Fiona hisses, snapping me back to this moment. "I know you have him." 

"Um," I say, "You're welcome to check the care home. There's only four rooms; it wouldn't take you long to see that he's not hiding out under the bed." 

"This isn't a joke," she growls, and—I see that, no, it's really not. Her hair's wild and unbrushed, and the look in her eyes is so feral it sends a chill up my spine. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

"Where's Baz?" I demand.

"That's what I've just asked _you_ , Chosen One! He was kidnapped, and I know you and your precious Mage have him." 

The word _kidnapped_ rattles around my brain as I try to make sense of it. Baz Pitch, kidnapped. Baz Pitch, in danger. My mind doesn't know how to make sense of it. 

"Who? How? Where? Why?" I ask sharply, so quickly it sounds like one question instead of four. 

"Don't pretend you don't know!"

  
"I _don't_ ," I say as the air around me gets hotter, harder to breathe. I smell the smoke and feel myself losing control; I look down to my hands and they've already gone blurry and unstable. 

"Woah, woah," Fiona says, "Calm down, Chosen One. Breathe." I try my best, but my breaths are coming out unevenly, and I can't get enough air into my lungs. "Boyo, stop."

_Stop._ I tell myself. _You'll make it worse. Stop. You need to find Baz. Stop._

I force myself to take in more oxygen, and focus on making myself still and stable. It takes a few minutes, but I do it, and I look up to see fear in Fiona's eyes. 

"If it wasn't you…" she says, trailing off in concern. 

"Tell me everything," I demand. 

"Basil was at the Club playing tennis on Tuesday. He never came back home, and then yesterday we got a ransom note." 

"Okay… so you paid it and they still didn't give him back?"

Fiona looks like I've offended her. "Pitches don't pay ransoms." 

"Are you fucking mad? Pay the ransom!" I yell at her, and kick the brick wall beside me in frustration. Pain shoots up my leg, but I don't exactly care about that right now. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

Fiona looks at me curiously. She looks like Baz when she's thinking— intense in her concentration. She pauses before asking, "what are you and Basil?" 

"What do you mean?" 

“Mordelia told me that you've been at the Manor visiting Basil late at night. I checked the GPS on his car and he's punched in this address nearly a dozen times this summer…" she gives me a serious look, and asks, "Are you boys shagging or something?” 

“O-or something!” I splutter, and she raises her eyebrows, mistaking my meaning. “No, no, he’s just been giving me car rides!”

“Is that a euphemism I’m too old to know?”

“No! It means—ugh!—it's just, something weird's been happening.”

“Something weirder than you and Basil…” she pauses meaningfully, “hanging out?”

“Yes,” I reply, not bothering to correct her on the nature of our relationship again. “Whenever I’m in danger, I’ve been magically teleporting to Baz.”

“Teleportation isn’t possible,” Fiona counters skeptically.

“Well,” I say with a shrug. “It’s somewhat possible, because I’ve been doing it ever since the end of term last year.” 

She gives me a thoughtful look. "Okay, teleport us to him right now, then." 

"I can't."

"Like hell you can't," she snarls. 

"I can't do it on command! Baz and I haven't figured that out yet." 

"It's time to figure it out, Mage-ling," she growls.

"Okay, okay," I say, wishing right about now that I took our practices more seriously. 

I hear Baz's voice in my head saying, _Think, Snow, what's the link?_

What is it? Why is this happening? What's the connection?

"Well, I'm always afraid when it happens," I think out loud, "or in danger." 

"That can be arranged," Fiona says darkly, and I take a step back to clear my head (without immediate fear of being punched by Fiona.)

There is something else. Something I didn't want to tell Baz, because I thought it would come out weird. Make it seem like I was doing it on purpose. And I'm not sure if he would like it very much if I was. 

The first time, I said I wanted to go home and dropped down onto Baz's bed. I didn't think much of it at the time— our room is mine too. But now, I don't have that excuse; I'm not teleporting to Watford, I'm teleporting to wherever Baz is. I get scared or angry or uncomfortable— just like I was the day the Humdrum took me— and my magic does what it did that day. It reactivates the spell, even without the words.

Because every time I teleport, I'm thinking of Baz. 

I think I know what that might mean. 

There is one way to find out. 

I turn around to run back into the care home, Fiona's protests following me up the stairs to my room. I rummage through my things before I find what I'm looking for—my wand. I don't usually use it at all over the summer, but I'll need it for what I'm going to try. I've turned around to run back down the stairs just as Fiona's caught up with me. She lets out a roar of frustration, and shouts at me, "Slow down, Chosen One!" 

"My name is Simon," I say to her as we make our way back outside, "and I think I know what to do." 

We're standing in an alleyway away from prying eyes. I'm gripping my wand tightly, hoping it'll come through for me today, though I've never been very good with it. Penny says it must be because it doesn't belong to one of my family members; it's a hand-me-down from the Mage. I think it's just because I'm a shite at magic. But I'm better when I'm feeling passionate; and there's nothing I want more right now than to save Baz. 

I grab Fiona by the wrist, and she reflexively tries to pull away, but I grip her arm tighter to keep her connected to me, the way Penny was the last time I did this with someone else. 

I give myself a moment to catch my breath before saying the words I think will take me to wherever Baz's kidnappers are keeping him. Words I think might just work if I'm honest about what they really mean. 

" **I wish I was home,"** I say, letting my magic bubble up inside of me, and I think clearly of Baz's face, with his crooked nose and his piercing grey eyes and troublesome smirk. I think of the way his cheeks look when they're flushed and how his collarbones rest on his pale chest and how soft his hair seems. I feel the pull at my gut just as I'm imagining what it would be to reach out and cup a lock of his hair behind his ear. 

I open my eyes, and Fiona and I are under a bridge facing a pile of rocks. "Jesus Christ," she swears, catching her balance from the shock of the teleportation. She looks around, taking in our surroundings. Her eyes go wide, and she curses, " _Fuck._ "

"What?" I ask, putting my hand on my belt, readying for a fight, with the Sword of Mages incantation on the tip of my tongue.

"This is a _numpties lair._ Basil was kidnapped by _numpties._ What a daft git!" she exclaims. 

"Hey," I warn, a surge of protectiveness for Baz pulling at my gut.

"The heir of the House of Pitch. Natasha's son. Kidnapped by _numpties_ like some kind of _commoner!_ Like he's some kind of an incompentent mage! Kid's top of his class at Watford, and he can't fight off _numpties!"_ Fiona looks so genuinely offended by this fact. It's ridiculous; this entire family is fucking ridiculous. 

"Do you want to sit here and roast Baz or do you want to save him?" I snap at her. 

She looks like she's seriously debating her answer, but then she grips her wand tighter and says, "Alright, we save him now, and I give him a piece of my mind later." 

I roll my eyes at her, and slide down the mud to the mouth of the lair, getting my trousers all dirty. Fiona casts **Float Like A Butterfly** , and gently descends next to me without even scuffing her Doc Martens. (She's nearly as graceful as Baz so it's a pretty sight, but I'd never tell her that.) I hear noise from inside the cave, and call my sword to me, bracing myself for a battle. "Alright," I whisper to her, "on three." 

She nods, and I say, "One." 

"Two," she chimes in, her face set in a determined glare.

"Three!" I yell, and all hell breaks loose. 

We break through the rock barricade door with a loud bang. We easily could've just opened it, and Fiona knows it too, since she's used **A Sledgehammer to Crack a Nut.** The numpties all stare at us dumbly, but we don't waste a second to start the fight.

Fiona casts a **Caught In A Landslide** to throw the creatures off their balance, and I get to swinging my sword around. I haven't got the opportunity to use the weapon all summer, but fighting is second nature to me now, more instinct than skill, so I've got two numpties on their knees before Fiona's even started casting. 

"Aim to kill, boyo!" she yells after a minute of battle. She takes out a numpty with an " **Another One Bites The Dust"** as if to demonstrate.

Her order reminds me of the Mage, of the boys in the care home, of how everyone thinks I'm just a nuclear bomb, and it makes my skin prickle uncomfortably. I ignore her command, continuing to aim for injury rather than death. 

I've just knee-capped another numpty when I hear someone yell my name. 

Not someone. _Baz._

I look around for him, expecting to see his black hair and pale skin and permanent scowl, but I can't find his face anywhere in this cave. 

Then I see it in the corner, where the light doesn't reach. 

A coffin.

Oh _fuck._

I'm running to it without any regard for fighting the numpties. I narrowly dodge a falling numpty that Fiona's taken down with a **Paper Beats Rock.** She screams "you're welcome!" at me, but I don't answer her; my sole focus is getting to Baz. 

The coffin's been locked shut, so I take my sword and break it in one swift motion. Then, I'm tearing open the lid and looking into familiar stormy grey eyes. 

I let out a choked noise of relief and pull Baz to me in a tight hug. 

"Simon," he says in an unsure voice, like he can't quite believe I'm really here, and my breath catches in my throat. Hearing my name in his lovely, posh voice makes me feel a little lightheaded. 

So much so that I lose all sense; I take him by the back of the neck and press my lips to his. 

He lets out a noise of surprise that I swallow. Then, he's kissing me back just as desperately as I'm kissing him; like I'm oxygen, like I'm water, like I'm blood, like I'm _vital._

When I stick my tongue in his mouth, I feel him shiver against me and tighten the grip he has on my curls. I moan when he pulls at my hair and pushes his face harder against mine. 

"Hey! Tossers!" Fiona yells, breaking the spell that Baz and I were just under. I pull my mouth away from his and open my eyes to find his pupils are so blown wide that his irises look black. "Are the two of you going to sit here snogging in this _numpties cave_ all day like a couple of horny teenagers?"

"Fuck off, Fiona," Baz says, his voice quavering a bit in his breathlessness. 

"You fuck off, Basil! Numpties, honestly!?" Fiona starts in on her beratement, and doesn't stop as we make our way out of the cave. Baz looks annoyed as he keeps sneaking glances at me (I know this because I keep stealing looks at him too).

When we get to the street, Baz asks where the car is, and Fiona says, her voice dripping in sarcasm, "Your miracle boy teleported us here. Ask him to magic us a flying carpet to take us back." 

Baz looks at me like I might actually be able to get us a magic carpet. 

“Uh,” I say, “can’t we just call an Uber?” 

Fiona scoffs at me, and waves her hand to motion to Baz, “In his condition?”

I look at Baz, _really_ look at him, and see that his white tennis outfit is stained with dirt and blood and his skin is more grey than white.

"Fiona, spell him!” I exclaim, kicking myself for being too distracted by the kissing to realize what poor condition Baz was in. “Did they give you blood? Do you need some?" I ask, holding out my wrist before I can think better of it.

Fiona's looking at me like I've said something extremely impolite at a dinner party (I recognize the look from the times I stayed with Agatha over the holidays), but Baz just shakes his head tersely, once. 

"No, they gave me that,” he says quietly, gently pushing my wrist away, "but not any food." 

I turn to Fiona, and say, "We're stopping at Maccies,” and Baz lets out a little huff of laughter. 

* * *

After some bickering and Fiona casting all the necessary healing and cleaning spells on Baz, she decided to magically hotwire us a car. (I tried to veto that plan, but Baz was in support, so I was outnumbered.) As soon as we got to her flat, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey, complaining that she was knackered from pulling all of our weights in the fight against the numpties. Now she's retreated to her bedroom, after promising me she'll return the stolen car first thing in the morning. ( _'Sure, Mage-ling, but know that first thing in the morning means 1 p.m. and not a minute sooner.')_ Baz and I are now sitting in his aunt's living room, silently drinking tea and avoiding eye contact. 

I'm not really sure where to pick up from here. 

Should I apologize for kissing him? I didn't exactly ask before I did it. Or really think about it. I just stuck my tongue down his throat without any thought to what would happen _after._

My first kiss with Agatha was nothing like this. It was the end of the year dance, and Agatha had agreed to be my date. We were slow dancing, and it felt like the right thing to do. I’d always fancied her, and I thought she had started to fancy me back—why else would she agree to go to the ball with me? She must have realized that we made sense. Everyone expected us to get together, after all. I leaned in to press a chaste kiss to her lips, and from that night on (until she dumped me), she was my girl. I thought that’s how it was supposed to feel like, like the Happily Ever After Kiss after a Disney movie. Like security, and calmness, and safety.

Baz doesn’t make me feel any of those things—I feel wild with him, every nerve ending alight by his presence. I’m a forest fire and he’s the gasoline fanning the flames. It’s unfathomable, shocking, crazy that we’d end up together.

And yet. I’m looking at his bow-shaped lips, and all I can think about is the taste of his tongue.

I need to say something. This silence has gone on far too long, and if I’ve learned anything from living with Baz for seven years, it’s that he can make the silent treatment last hours, days, weeks. There’s no fight we can have that he won’t win. 

I break the silence with, “So, uh… you play tennis?”

Baz blinks at me slowly. Once, twice. “Pardon?”

I feel myself blush, but I keep talking. “You were kidnapped while playing at the club, yeah? So you play tennis. Are you, er, any good?”

Baz is looking at me like I’m an extra special idiot. I’m feeling a bit like a prat as his signature blank, cool look drags on.

“You want to make small talk about my recreational hobbies?” He finally asks in a slow, condescending voice. 

“Not really,” I admit.

“Then why are you?” He sneers.

“Alright, let's not talk about tennis,” I snap, annoyed that my attempt at politeness has failed so spectacularly. “Let’s talk about why you kissed me."

“ _You_ kissed _me_ , Snow!”

“Yeah, well, well-“ I bluster, “you kissed me back!” 

He frowns at me, but says nothing. His indifferent reaction has got me more gutted than I’d anticipated, and I can smell my magic as strongly as I can feel it; it’s creating a cloud of smoke around me. 

"I-I," I stammer, searching for something else to say. I know he wants to kiss me. I felt it back in that numpty cave. I can feel it in the air now; the tension I always mistook for antagonism feels distinctly sexual now. 

"Use your words, Snow."

I growl. I _hate_ it when he says that. I hate him. 

Except I don't, not really. Not at all. 

I stand suddenly from the table, nearing knocking over our tea. And then I grab him by his shirt collar and pull him towards me. I bring him face-to-face with me, and search his eyes for something, some flicker of emotion. When I see it, I smash our lips together.

He groans in surprise, but then kisses me back fiercely. (I _knew_ it!) It's just as mind-blowing the second time as the first, and I feel my magic change from the threatening dark cloud it was a moment ago to a smoldering heat of passion. I’m breathless with desire, and I think it's making Baz dizzy, because when we pull apart, he looks like he's been hit over the head with a crowbar. 

“What—what are you doing?” He asks, lips parted and pink from snogging me.

"What does it look like I’m doing? I’m kissing you,” I growl at him and run my thumb against his bottom lip. He kisses my finger in a way that seems almost instinctive. “Are you done being a git now?" I ask, and run the hand that isn't on his lip through his hair (I was right; it _is_ soft.)

I feel the shiver that runs up his spine at my words, but he says, "no”, difficult as always. 

I huff out a laugh, because I don't mind that he doesn't ever make it easy. If he did, he wouldn't be Baz. 

I shove him against the wall when I go to kiss him this time, so that I can push my body against his. I pull at his hair roughly to keep his mouth against mine, and he runs his hands down my sides and ends up with his arms wrapped around my waist. I close the inch of space between our groins, wanting to be closer to him. He groans into my mouth, so I grind against him. I move my mouth to his earlobe and suck and he lets out a high, pretty moan. 

“D’you wanna, uh,” I clear my throat and try to force myself to sound more eloquent, more in control, but it's hard, because my erection is growing rapidly, and his is already digging into my stomach. “Do you want to take this to the bedroom?” I ask in my best attempt at sultriness.

I think it’s passable, because Baz is nodding enthusiastically, and taking my hand and dragging me down the hallway quickly. We end up in a room that’s much more Baz than his one at home, with a Watford banner and a David Bowie poster; luckily though, like his bedroom in Hampshire, this room also has a king-sized bed. 

I remember the way he looked on the day I first teleported to him—flushed and flustered and so clearly caught in the act—and I realize I want to see that again. I want to see it for real. 

“Get on the bed,” I demand.

“You're awfully bossy,” he gripes, but the tent in his trousers tells me that he likes that. 

“I want you to touch yourself, like you were doing back in June." 

His expression doesn't reveal any surprise but a blush crawls up his neck and colours his cheeks. My cock twitches at the sight (I’m almost worried I won’t _survive_ seeing him touch himself, but I want it so badly I’m willing to risk it).

"You want a show?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. 

"Yeah," I swallow back my nerves. "I do." 

Without breaking eye contact with me, Baz undoes the first button on his shirt (the one he changed into when we first got here; he claimed Fiona's **Clean As A Whistle** was 'subpar at best'). When he undoes the second button, I can see his nipples are hard and I have the overwhelming urge to put my mouth on him there, but I'm too captivated by the slow way Baz is undressing to move a muscle. When he's completely unbuttoned his shirt, he lets it fall to the ground in a way I've never seen him do at Watford (he's usually very insistent on hanging his garments up properly). (Guess he doesn't much care when he's turned on.) 

He's much quicker with his trousers; he steps out of them with much more grace than I could ever manage. His pants are a dark forest green and tight-fitting. I've never given much thought about what another bloke's cock might look like, but looking at Baz nearly naked right now makes my mouth go dry with anticipation. My eyes are glued at his thumbs under the elastic band, but they go up to his face when a few seconds go by and he hasn't taken them off.

"Like what you see, Snow?" he asks, cocky smirk on his face. I've never liked that expression more.

"Might do," I say, even though I think the way I say it in a cracked sort of voice has made it clear to him I very much would love for him to take his pants off. 

He decides to show me mercy and finally pull off his pants and— _Crowley_ —I've gone fully hard looking at him exposed. 

I _definitely_ like what I see. 

His cock looks the way I thought it would look if I had to guess (so maybe I have imagined it, once or twice): long and elegant, just like him. He's gripping the base and there's a bead of precum on his tip already, proof that he wants this as much as I do. 

I look back up to his face and he's biting his lip. I'll get around to biting it for him, but first…

"Lay down, and show me how you like to wank."

Baz positions himself on top of the deep blue satin covers, his upper back against the pillows and his legs spread shoulder-width apart, and wraps his right hand around the base of his cock. He bites his bottom lip harder and throws his head back in a soft groan. He's teasing himself, running his hand up and down his length excruciatingly slowly; as I watch him, I feel I'm the one being tortured by his slender fingers. 

"Yeah, Baz," I moan, and palm myself through my trousers. I reckon I'm going to get my pants wet with precum, but I'm too preoccupied with the lovely visual Baz is giving me to focus on getting myself undressed. "You're so hot like that. You look so fucking good when you touch yourself." 

I'm almost embarrassed by my dirty talk, until Baz lets out his loudest moan yet and his hips jerk roughly into his palm. He's panting louder now, so I keep going, "Fuck yes, Baz. Fuck yourself. Go on, baby. _Fuck_." 

He gracelessly fumbles to grab his wand from the bedside table, and I flinch out of habit. Thankfully, he doesn't see that, focused on casting a **Slippery When Wet** spell on his fingers. My heart speeds up when his hand doesn't move to his hard cock, but to his arsehole. I make a choked noise, and he meets my eyes, looking faintly embarrassed. 

"Is this okay?" he asks shyly, his hand stilling over his rim. 

I don't trust my voice works any longer, so I just nod vigorously, enthusiastically, to express to him how _very, very_ okay this is to me. 

I did ask him to fuck himself, after all. I just didn't hope for so much. 

I think he gets how desperately I want this, because his sheepish expression switches to a more familiar, confident smirk as he begins to rub his finger against his arsehole. Then, he slips a finger inside himself and his eyes flutter closed. His breath comes out in uneven huffs and his forearms flex enticingly as he fingers himself.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I grip myself harder through my trousers, and my hips jerk forward, chasing the relief it brings. I'm squeezing myself in time with the measured thrusts of his fingers, getting lightheaded with desire as he moans and groans and purrs every time his finger disappears into himself. 

I look back up to his face and groan, low and loud. His lips are pink and wet, and his mouth is open in ecstasy. He's looking right at me with so much lust I shiver.

Not touching him is starting to physically _hurt_. I move closer to him and he swallows showily, his Adam’s apple bouncing in an alluring movement. I want to run my teeth along his neck. I want to leave love bites. I want to feel the delicious noises he’s making as they spill out of his throat. 

More than that, though, I want to…

"Can I do it for you?" I ask, my voice sounding desperate even to my own years. But Baz doesn't seem to mind, because he's nodding before I'm finished asking the question.

"You might want to take off some of your clothing first," he suggests, his eyes hungry with desire. Then he adds, with a touch of sarcasm (because he's Baz): "You look a tad bit uncomfortable."

I don't bother with a snarky response (I can't think of one). He’s right; I’m straining against my trousers. I rip off my shirt and kick off my trainers at the same time; then, when I go to take off my trousers, I get tripped up over the legs and nearly fall on my arse. Baz huffs out of a laugh at me. 

"Shut up," I mutter, though I'm smiling too. 

I think about teasing him the same way he teased me, but I'm too impatient for that; I rip my pants down, taking more care not to fall than I did with my trousers. Baz is looking at me like he wants to eat me; he grips the base of his cock and purses his lips together, but I still hear the soft moan he lets out. 

I sit beside him on the bed, and he grabs his wand to cast **Slippery When Wet** on my fingers. I've never done anything like this; I didn't get this far with Agatha, but I'm not sure it would help if I had. Buggering a bloke has got to be different than being with a girl, right? I suppose it doesn't exactly matter right now. I'm inexperienced either way. 

I swallow down my nerves, summoning up some of my courage, as I bring my hand to Baz's arsehole. It flutters against my fingertips, pretty and pink, and Baz's lips open to let out a shaky breath. I rub my wet thumb against his exterior and his breaths become louder, more uneven. Crowley, he looks so turned on, and I haven't really even done anything yet. 

"You like that?" I ask, as I push just the tip of my thumb into him. He gasps and arches his back in pleasure, but he doesn't respond. "Baz?" I say, pulling my thumb out of him; he whines at the loss. "I said, do you like that?"

"It's adequate, Snow." Despite his efforts to sound unaffected, the shakiness of his voice gives him away. 

Guess I'll just have to try harder, then. 

I re-adjust so I can push my middle finger into him down to the knuckle; he initially tenses at the pressure, but then relaxes with a low groan. I push my fingers in and out of him—slowly, deliberately, like he was doing to himself—and his eyes flutter closed. I take the opportunity to lean forward to lick him from the base to the tip of his cock, and it surprises an "oh, fuck!" out of him. 

His eyes fly open, and we make eye contact just as I'm starting to suck on the head of his cock. He lets out a seemingly involuntary, high-pitched moan at that; it makes me let out a self-satisfied laugh around him, and his noises become even more desperate at that. I reckon it must have been the vibrations of my laughter that did it, so I try humming, and am rewarded with Baz's moans of "Snow, Snow." 

I take his cock deeper into my mouth and hum again as I continue to move my finger in and out of him. I try to keep a pace but I keep losing it; sloppily licking him and fingering him out of rhythm. Baz doesn't seem to mind, though.

"Ah, Merlin, _fuck_ , yes, yes, yes, Crowley, fuck me, oh, _Snow_." 

"That's not my name," I tease as I fit a second finger into Baz. He moans in appreciation, but the noise is (unfortunately) not my name. My hand stills, and he scowls. 

"Don't stop, you insolent nightmare," he complains, and tries to move his hips to get more friction. It's a lovely sight; Baz Pitch undone, Baz Pitch under me, Baz Pitch trying to fuck himself on my fingers. But I've always had a healthy appetite; I want more. 

So I keep his hips still under my hands, and demand, "say my name." 

"Snow," he growls. 

"You called me Simon before," I say, thinking I didn't just imagine it the night we shared a bed. And I definitely didn't imagine it earlier today in the numpties lair.

But he still argues with me: "I don't recall." 

"Really?" I ask, and crook my fingers upwards inside of him. His expression is torn between stubbornness and longing. I get the idea to try putting my tongue on his arsehole to tease more sweet noises out of him; I do it and he makes a choked sound at the back of his throat that I take as pleasure. But when I look at him a few moments later, he's covering his mouth with his hand and his eyes are wide with panic. 

"Baz?" I take my hands off him, but he still looks concerned. "Hey, I'm sorry, I should have asked first, I didn't mean to…" I trail off, because he's shaking his head in dissent.

"No, 'S okay, Snow," he slurs, "I just."

He stops talking, but keeps his hand over his lips. I'm puzzled, until I realize…

"Oh, your fangs," I say casually and Baz's eyes go wider in terror. "No, no, Baz, it's okay, I don't mind." 

He looks unconvinced, so I shift my position on the bed so I'm face-to-face with him; he recoils slightly but I don't take it personally. I think he's insecure, though he doesn't need to be. 

I grab his wrist, and try to pull his hand away from his face. "You don't need to hide them from me, love," I murmur, the pet name coming out accidentally. It shocks Baz enough that he doesn't fight me when I gently take his hand away from his face. When I see the glint of his two fangs, sharper and longer than canines are supposed to be, I feel my cock harden in appreciation.

"Wicked," I say, and kiss him carefully on the mouth. It's closed-mouthed and chaste and nothing like our previous heated kisses. It's tender more than anything; it leaves me wanting more.

I move my lips to place a kiss in the hollow of his neck. He likes that, so I continue upwards, getting rougher and wetter with my love bites. Baz reaches down and grabs my cock, and I moan into the crook of his neck. I'd been so preoccupied with touching Baz that I'd almost forgotten how badly I needed to be touched; so much so that, as soon as he's touching me, I'm babbling my appreciation. 

"Baz, Baz, oh, Baz, baby, like that, oh, _yes_."

I've never wanted this much, this badly. I can't concentrate on trying to give Baz a hickey anymore; all I can feel is his hand on my groin. All I can see is his grey eyes sparkling with desire and his pink lips smirking around his fangs. Everything's _Baz, Baz, Baz._

"Please," I choke out.

"Please what?" he asks smugly. 

"Please, Baz," I plead, though I don't know what exactly I'm begging for. Just more. More of Baz. (I always want more of Baz.) 

His eyes are clouded with lust and wonder when he flips us over so he's on top, and takes both of our cocks in his hand. When I moan out his name in satisfaction, Baz gives me a feral smile. 

I wasn't any good at keeping pace, but Baz is. His hands are smooth and precise; he's drawing pleasured moans out of the mouth of us. I'm not sure where to look—Baz's hand on our cocks, Baz's chest, Baz's eyes. I settle on Baz's mouth, the way his lips are parted, the way his breath comes out heavy, the way he runs his tongue runs along his bottom lip.

I grab his arse and rut more forcefully against him; it makes Baz's breath catch in his throat. My thumb is still a bit wet with lube, so I tease his rim as our cocks brush together. 

Baz is babbling curses at me that sound more like prayers. His voice is becoming more high-pitched, the motion of his hips and the precision of his hands more and more erratic. I think he's close to his orgasm, so I moan, "yeah, baby, come for me, come for me, Baz." 

And he does; Baz cums with my name on his lips. "Simon!" 

Affection and desire pool in my chest as his cum gets all over my cock. He uses it as lube as he regains his firm grip around me, trying to bring me over the edge with him. It doesn't take him long; looking at his blissed out face with his long fingers on my cock, especially after all the filthy things we've done tonight, is more than enough to bring me spectacularly to orgasm. 

I've cum before, but never like this. I close my eyes and let out a cry; I feel like a galaxy has opened up in my chest. Like Baz and I have solved something in the universe by being together, like everything has fallen into place with my hands on him and his hands on me. Like this is what everything has been building up to; yet like this is just the beginning. 

I open my eyes as Baz is casting a quiet **Clean As A Whistle** on the both of us. I have so many things I want to say to him, but I'm not sure where to start, so I turn over and wait for him to say something. He frowns at my expectant look. 

"What are you waiting for, a thank you?" he sneers. The contrast between the Baz who moaned sweet nothings at me and this one is staggering. I give him a dumbfounded look, my mouth agape.

"Do you always have to say the worst possible thing?"

"Yes," he snaps, stubborn as ever. (I don't know why I expected anything less.) (Note to self: Baz isn't one for post-coital bliss.) 

"I don't expect a thank you, obviously," I huff, not mentioning that what just happened was so mind-blowingly good _I_ wouldn't mind thanking _him_. "Though next time, at the very least, it would be nice if you could not sneer at me while I'm naked." 

Baz's eyes go wide. "Next… time?" 

"Well, yeah," I huff, "Don't boyfriends do this sort of thing?"

"You… think we should be boyfriends?" 

I run a hand through my hair in annoyance. Baz isn't usually this slow. "I fancy you, yeah? And, I mean... don't you fancy me? At least a little? I mean, you don't hate me anymore, I thought." 

I know Baz doesn't _like_ me. But I think he fancies me all the same at least. 

But then Baz laughs at me, and I think I've got it all wrong, been far too forward and presumptuous about what all this means to him. I really want to leave, or hide, but I've got nowhere to go, and it's hard to hide from someone when you're undressed. I go to grab my clothing, but Baz grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to him. He's got a happy smile on his face that makes my heart skip a beat. He grabs me by the back of the neck and kisses me purposefully.

It's so good—sweet and slow and sentimental. It makes me forget my misgivings and embarrassment. It makes me forget everything but his name. 

When he stops, I'm out of breath. There are stars in his eyes, and I think if he wasn't a vampire, he'd be short-winded too. 

"I don't hate you," he says, and his voice has gone soft in that way I'm still surprised he's capable of. That I'm shocked he's letting me see. 

So I kiss him again. And again. And again.

* * *

We only stop kissing when our mouths get sore. It's late, and the city lights illuminate his bedroom with its blues and yellows and reds. It looks ethereal against Baz's translucent skin. 

Baz breaks the companionable silence with: "What finding spell did you use?" 

“Huh?” 

“To direct your teleporting—what finally worked? Fiona isn’t powerful enough to cast one that accurately, so it had to have been you.”

I wish Baz wasn’t so perceptive. I deflect with, “Don’t tell Fiona she’s not powerful enough for anything. That witch is scary.”

“You only think that because you’ve never seen her drunkenly karaoke to Pour Some Sugar On Me,” Baz says, though the mental image doesn’t do much to counter the memory of her magically slashing through the numpties like hellfire. “Did you use an amplified **Follow The Yellow Brick Road**?" 

I consider lying, but I'm sure Fiona will just tell him the truth anyways, so I whisper, " **I wish I was home.** " 

"Pardon?" 

"I cast **'I wish I was home'** , and I landed in front of the numpties lair." 

Baz is quiet. Too quiet. I look to his face, expecting horror or pity. He's smart enough to realize what that admission means, and even if he's my boyfriend now—he is now, right? He didn't exactly say _yes_ but he didn't say _no_ —he's probably thinking it's too much too soon for declarations that serious.

But when I look at his face, he hasn't got an unpleasant expression of any sort. He looks—well, he looks fucking _elated._

"Shut up," I snap preemptively, expecting he's about to say something shitty, but there's no bite to my voice. 

"Simon," he says in my favourite Baz voice, the soft one, and kisses me. Despite the soreness of my mouth, I kiss back with enthusiasm. 

But when the kiss ends, he's smirking. "That is the softest shit I've ever heard."

_There's_ his shitty commentary. 

"Shut. _Up,_ " I insist again, but he's not finished. His smile just gets even more devilish. 

"You've been coming to me because I'm your _home,_ " he continues. "That was really it the whole time? Even back before we were friends? Even back when we were enemies? Crowley, Snow. Are you a _masochist_?"

I take one of his pillows and smack him right in the face. He laughs, undeterred. I want to be angry, but he looks so pretty when he giggles—especially this one, this wild, snorty, involuntary expression of joy. "Laugh it up, Pitch," I say, chuckling along with him, now.

"Don't be tetchy," he smiles, "you're mine, too." 

"Yeah?" I ask, trying, and failing, to keep the hope out of my voice. 

"Yes, you glorious nightmare," he says, his voice soaked in equal measure in false annoyance and genuine affection. He pauses, before admitting quietly, "I've fancied you for ages." 

"How long?" I ask, excited by his confession.

"Too long, given that I've seen the way that you eat."

"Sod off. You fancy me. You _want_ me to keep teleporting to you and jumping you when you're naked," I say, thinking of the night we agreed to figure out this teleporting business to stop the awkward interruptions. 

"I could still go for less uninvited visits," he protests, and I frown. "The proper thing to do now is to wait for your official invitation."

"My what?" 

"Yes, it's a whole thing, the courting process," he says, "Pitch family tradition requires suitors be formally invited to our home to plead their case to the head of household—my father. If you don't do it well enough, he'll curse you, and you'll end up joining the wraith in the guest room." 

"No," I object immediately.

" _Yes_ ," he insists, "And since I'm a Grimm, too, you're eventually going to have to defend my honor in at least three duels to the death."

"You better be taking the piss." 

He smirks at me. "I suppose you'll find out."

"Yeah," I say with a smile, "I guess I will."

I'd risk curses and duels for him, after all. 

Through everything, through the years of fighting and sharing a room, he's been my constant. He's my home. 

And there's no place like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment/ leave kudos if you liked my words! 
> 
> and come find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com) where I post a ton about Carry On/ my WIPs/ queer lit in general :)
> 
> 'til next time I write these two idiots falling in love!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Home is Wherever I'm with You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949519) by [WarriorBeeoftheSea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorBeeoftheSea/pseuds/WarriorBeeoftheSea)




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